


Sap

by DarcyDelaney



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, Pre-Relationship, SPN Holiday Mixtape, but it's def happening, home for the holidays, they're in college but this doesn't take place in college
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21903352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarcyDelaney/pseuds/DarcyDelaney
Summary: Of course Dean breaks into the Christmas tree farm owned by the family of the hottest guy in his high school class. Of course he gets caught. Of course he thinks said hottest guy has somehow gotten even hotter since high school. Of course he’s feeling all sorts of things.Of course, of course, of course.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 37
Kudos: 210
Collections: Holiday Mixtape 2019





	Sap

**Author's Note:**

> Written to hopefully offer warm fuzzies for the [2019 SPN Holiday Mixtape](https://holidaymixtape.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading! Merry Christmas, happy holidays! <3

In hindsight, it had been stupid to cut one down from a farm. He could’ve just scooped one of the small ones from outside the grocery store, or, hell, even just headed for the woods and grabbed one from there with exactly zero risk of police involvement. Way easier, way faster, way less of a hassle.

But Dean’s always liked a challenge.

  
  


Blue Skies Tree Farm is dark and deserted, which means for Dean, it’s perfect. The snow crunches under his boots as he skirts around the farm’s edges, squinting through the moonlight for the perfect tree: not too tall, not too wide, something he’ll easily be able to cut down and drag to the Impala parked down the street.

“Better fuckin’ appreciate this, Sammy,” Dean mutters, blowing into his hands as he walks. 

This is fucking stupid; he shouldn’t be out here. He’s in college now, he shouldn’t be trying to pull shit like this anymore, but Sam had done such a shitty job at hiding the embarrassment on his face when his girlfriend had tried (and failed even more shittily) to hide her surprise and judgement—which, don’t even get Dean started—at the fact that they didn’t have a Christmas tree, and that had been enough to have Dean plotting out a plan by the next day.

Ten minutes of trudging through snow has the grocery store idea looking better with every footstep, and Dean’s about thirty seconds away from turning tail and heading for the nearest Shop-Rite when he sees it, a perfect little evergreen at the end of a row. Dean grins to himself and reaches for the handsaw he’d tucked into his backpack. 

Dean glances around one last time to make sure the coast is clear before dropping down onto his back, bending his knees, and scooting underneath the tree just like he does when he’s working on the Impala. He watches the way his breath puffs out in front of his face before peeling off his gloves, lining his saw up with the trunk, and getting to work.

It doesn’t take long for him to realize the trunk itself is practically frozen. Sooner still, the snow’s soaked his jacket and has started in on his shirt, he’s managed to get at least three slivers,  _ and _ he’s less than a quarter of the way through the thing.

Fucking trees.

Finally, finally, Dean feels his saw hit the halfway mark, and kicks it up a notch. Sap covers his numb fingertips and more pine needles are raining down into his hair with every stroke, but he’s so close, so goddamn close, if he could just—

The trunk is about to crack, he knows it, he can tell, but suddenly a bright yellow flashlight floods the space around him, and Dean freezes. “I’m gonna need you to stop right there,” someone behind him says, and Dean drops his head back onto the snow with a defeated  _ thunk _ .

  
  


There are candles—fucking  _ candles _ —in the windows of the little gift shop the guy marches him to, and as he’s shoved inside, Dean swears he can smell apple cider donuts. The whole place is wood-paneled walls and Christmas cheer, stockings and wreaths and stuffed animals and manger scenes. It’d actually be pretty cozy if Dean weren’t sitting on a fifty-fifty chance of spending the rest of the night in jail.

“Call the police,” the guy says to someone Dean can’t see. 

He knew it was coming, but the goddamn cops are still the last thing Dean needs right now, and he drags his feet when they’re mentioned. “Hey, come on, we don’t have to—” He cuts himself off when the guy cuffs him hard on the back of the head with the hand that’s not currently latched onto Dean’s shoulder. “Watch it, asshole!”

He doesn’t, opting instead to shove Dean down hard onto a decorative bench.

“You,” he says sternly, pointing at Dean, “stay.”

Dean glares up at him as he rotates his shoulder as discreetly as possible. “Got a newspaper you want me to fetch while I’m at it, douchebag?”

The guy looks at him flatly, then starts ticking off Dean’s offenses on his fingers. “Trespassing, attempted burglary, verbal abuse—”

Dean opens his mouth to protest—the guy wants verbal abuse, Dean can sure as shit hit him with some more—but the look the guy gives him is pure ice, and he doesn’t have to be a genius to know when to keep his mouth shut. He slumps back against the bench and glares at him instead.

“Like I said,” the guy continues, the smile he flashes making Dean’s skin crawl, “Stay.”

And fuck that, fuck  _ him _ , Dean’s not letting that shit slide. “Yeah, let me know how long it’s gonna take for that icicle stuck up your ass to melt.”

The guy’s eyes cloud over, and for a split second, Dean wonders if he’s bitten off more than he can chew. He turns bodily back towards Dean, then takes a step forward. Right when Dean’s wondering what would hurt more, a punch to the face or a kick to the gut, when someone on the other side of the shop interrupts them.

“What’s going on?”

Dean’s surprised that the new voice actually sounds familiar, and he looks up to see Castiel Novak, Lawrence’s latest golden boy, class valedictorian, and one of the first guys Dean actually, really, legitimately  _ liked _ , standing behind the register. He hasn’t seen him since high school; dude went off to some fancy school in Boston—Harvard, it was Harvard, who’s Dean fucking kidding—and it’s not like he and Dean ran in the same social circles at LHS to begin with.

That never changed the fact that Dean had wanted to jump his bones from the second he laid eyes on him and his pathetic attempts at volleyball in junior year gym class.

He doesn’t miss the double-take Cas shoots him, the flash of recognition in his eyes before he turns his attention to the guy who hauled Dean in.

“Nick, what—”

“This scumbag—”

“Takes one to know one,” Dean interrupts.

“Shut up,” Nick snaps, glaring at Dean. “I caught him trying to cut down one of our trees.”

Cas pauses. “Did he? Cut one down, I mean.”

“Did you miss the part where I stopped him?” Nick asks, punctuating the last three words with a clap of his hands, right in Cas’ face, and fucking Christ, if Dean hadn’t thought he was a giant asshole already, that would’ve sealed the deal.

“So he didn’t take anything,” Cas says calmly. 

“He  _ would _ have if I hadn’t been there.” He shoots one more look at Dean before turning his attention back to Cas. “So what I want you to do,” he says, voice going loud and slow, “is to call the police so we can get this piece of shit out of here.” His voice returns to normal when he adds with a sneer, “No wonder Dad didn’t trust you to lock up on your own.”

And, ouch, that stings, hits a little too close to home. Dean watches the hurt flicker across Cas’ face for a split second. He recovers quick, though, Dean’s gotta give him that. “Give me a chance to prove myself,” he says. “To fix this. I know you don’t want to be here. You’ve got others things to do. Let me fix it.”

Nick hesitates, eyes darting between Dean and Cas. “Handle it,” he finally says, stepping forward and jabbing his finger at Cas’ chest. “Or else.” He shoots Dean one more dirty look before turning on his heel and heading for the staircase behind the register. Dean waits until Nick’s back is turned before throwing double middle fingers his way.

A door slams upstairs a few seconds later, and Cas stares down at his hands on the counter. He stays that way for so damn long that Dean’s about to make a mad dash for the exit, but before he can, Cas looks up and zeroes in on him with those eyes he’d spent too many chemistry classes (yeah, yeah, the irony’s not lost on him) thinking about.

They’re colder this time, though, and Dean’s gut drops as he starts to realize that,  _ fuck _ , Cas might actually turn him in.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, and to Dean’s surprise, it actually sounds like he means it. “For my brother, I mean.”

Dean huffs out a laugh and relaxes in spite of himself, running a hand through his hair. “Not your fault, man.” He pauses, then adds, “Hell, I should be the one apologizing to you.”

Cas is tinkering with something behind the cash register, but glances up in surprise at that. “For the tree?”

Dean waves him off. “For having to deal with that dick. Must suck livin’ with Satan incarnate, especially around the holidays.”

Cas grins down at his snow boots. “Sometimes I call him Lucifer when he’s not around.”

He takes a step out from behind the register, and suddenly Dean forgets to laugh because god _ damn _ , college has done Cas  _ all _ the favors. Despite his layers, it’s clear the guy’s toned up. With thighs like that, he must still run; what Dean wouldn’t give to see him jogging through the entire city.

In an attempt to get his mind off how goddamn bangable Cas looks, Dean gestures toward his bulky knit sweater, royal blue with a geometric nightmare of what he thinks might be snowflakes running across the chest. He’d worn it at least once a week in high school, and for whatever reason, Dean’s glad to see it’s still in heavy rotation. “Glad you’re sticking with the classics.”

Cas’ eyes go wide with surprise. “You remember it?”

“‘Course,” Dean says automatically. “Thing was practically your trademark in high school.”

“Like your leather jacket,” Cas says, gesturing toward the worn old thing draped over Dean’s shoulders, doing a real shitty job of keeping him warm. He tugs at the lapels, tucking himself further into the comfort of his dad’s hand-me-down while trying to remain calm at the fact that Cas fucking Novak had remembered it.

“Sure,” he finally says. “Like that.”

“I always liked it,” Cas says suddenly, and Dean stares at him.

“Yeah?”

Cas looks embarrassed as all hell, but he nods. “Something about it just seemed...safe, I think. Warm.” And no, that did absolutely  _ not _ fill Dean’s head with images of him draping his jacket over Cas’ shoulders like football players do to their cheerleader girlfriends. 

His fantasy was more focused on getting the fucking thing  _ off _ him. College will do that to ya; growth and maturity and all that.

“So, uh, you live here, or what?” Dean asks, trying to change the subject before his dick decides to give him away.

Cas raises an eyebrow, and Dean’s suddenly at a loss for words...again. “I mean, it just looked deserted from the street, and I just figured no one was around and…”

“That we’d be prime real estate for a burglary?” Cas finishes, and Dean cringes internally.

“Well...yeah.”

Cas takes that in, studying him for a few seconds. “We do,” he says slowly. “Someone’s always here. And a word of advice...if you try this again, I’ll be forced to do something about it.”

And Jesus, that should  _ not _ be as hot as it is, but here they are.

Pulling himself out of his momentary lust-induced haze, Dean takes a step back and taps his temple, then points at Cas. “Duly noted.”

Apparently, neither one of them know how to follow up on an exchange that may or may not have purposely included sexual undertones—Dean likes to think it’s the former—because now they’re just standing there, a stupid awkward silence between them, absolutely killing the mood.

And you know what, Dean isn’t about to let the mood go down without a fight. After all, he’s already made a goddamn fool of himself tonight, might as well shoot the shot he’d been too afraid to go for in high school too. 

“So,” he says, walking awkwardly around the tiny gift shop and toying with a stray piece of garland hanging off a handmade wreath. “This is quite the, uh, meet-cute, as the kids say, huh?”

Cas wrinkles his nose. “Is that like flossing?”

Dean gapes at him. “Is that...no, Cas, Jesus. A meet-cute. Y’know…?” He gestures between them with two fingers, but it becomes clear pretty quick that no, Cas doesn’t know, and Dean fumbles, feeling like a goddamn idiot before the words even leave his mouth. “It’s where two people meet, and, well, it’s cute.”

There’s that fucking nose wrinkle again. “I suppose,” Cas finally concedes, and Dean’s just about to smile and start laying the charm on thick when Cas continues, “We’ve already met, though.”

Dean brushes the concern away. “Just a technicality. Besides, who  _ wouldn’t _ want to meet me again?”

One corner of Cas’ mouth quirks up in a tiny little smirk, and Dean wants to tear his hair out. “You’re right.”

“Fuck, yeah, I am,” Dean agrees. “And hey,” he continues, trying hard for nonchalance, “at least now you know I have experience handling wood.”

He cringes internally; what the  _ fuck _ was that supposed to be in the first place,  _ flirting?  _ Jesus Christ, he’s rusty, but it’s too late now; he’s said it, he’s gotta commit. 

Dean doesn’t know what he’d been expecting—a chuckle, a blush, for Cas to take it as an invitation to press his lips (or any part of him, Dean’s not picky) against his own—but instead, the sentence just hangs there between them, clunky and awkward and awful. 

“That actually remains to be seen,” Cas finally answers with his stupid AP English sentence structure that should sound pretentious and gross outside of an essay but coming out of his mouth, sounds more natural than anything Dean’s ever heard, and that’s saying a lot considering the guy just fucking  _ destroyed _ his attempt at a pickup line and—

“—Dean?”

Dean blinks, looking up at him. “Uh, yeah?”

“I think you should go.” His voice is gentle, and Dean’s first thought is to protest, but he can already tell the request is non-negotiable. “Before Nick comes back. You being here any longer than necessary will just rile him up.”

And, shit, as disappointed as he is that this night isn’t gonna be ending with Cas pinning him up against that staircase and kissing him into the new year, Dean knows he’s right. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, nodding distractedly. “Well, uh, enjoy your break. And thanks. For, y’know. Saving my ass back there.”

Cas’ lips quirk up in a tiny little smile that has Dean’s heart picking up the pace like nobody’s business. “It was my pleasure.” Cas walks across the room to the door—yep, guy’s definitely still running—and opens it, glancing back at Dean. 

Dean takes the hint and zips his jacket back up before balling his fists deep in his pockets as he heads for the exit. There’s no light out there, just the moon reflecting off the snow, and Dean hasn’t even left yet, but already finds himself missing the warmth of the little cabin.

“So, uh, good night,” he falters, glancing up at Cas, who smiles.

“Merry Christmas, Dean Winchester.”

  
  


He likes giving him shit about it, but Dean secretly loves when Sam asks him to pick him up from school in the Impala.

“It’s faster than taking the bus, Dean,” Sam insists, and Dean just laughs.

“You act like I haven’t used this thing to get laid before, Sammy. I know how this works.” And  _ that _ always gets him flustered and pissed off, but not enough for Dean to miss the grin his little brother tries to hard to hide.

Sam doesn’t put his phone down until they pull into the driveway and climb out of the car, crossing the lawn to get to their front door.

“You’ve been busy, huh?” Sam asks.

Sure, if “sleeping til noon, spending too long jerking off in the shower, and sprawling out on the couch to marathon  _ Holiday Baking Championship _ ” counts as busy. “Obviously,” Dean says distractedly, digging into his pocket for his house key.

“So when’d you have time to grab that?”

“Sammy, what the hell are you—” Dean looks up at their tiny front porch and cuts himself off, “—well, fuck.”

Leaning up against the siding next to their front door is the tree—the exact one he had been trying to cut down, if the jagged, uneven trunk is anything to go by. His handsaw is propped up next to it, as well as a single glove, which Dean hadn’t even realized he’d lost at all.

“Y’know,” Sam says, walking toward the tree and grabbing a small note pinned to its branches while Dean stands there like a fucking idiot, “most people tend to just go for flowers.” He smirks and shoves the note into Dean’s hands before heading into the house.

Dean stands there in silence for a few seconds, turning the paper over and over in his hands as if contemplating whether or not to open it and—oh, who’s he kidding, of course he’s gonna fucking open it.

He glances over his shoulder and tries to ignore the way his fingers have gone a little numb as he unfolds the badly creased paper. He takes a second to scan the note, then without thinking about it, throws his head back and laughs—in relief, amusement, excitement, nerves, maybe a little of all four.

_ You forgot this. _

_ (And this: 785-721-8414) _

_ Merry Christmas, Dean Winchester. _


End file.
